“Well, Esther!” The sweet high voice with its impatient note was the same as ever.  “Here we are home again.  Fancy me forgetting it was Sunday!  Wasn’t it funny?  We met old MacTavish coming up from the station (not a single cab down to meet the train, of course!) and he looked so shocked.  Really, this place grows more insufferable every day.  It seems to agree with you, though, you’re looking awfully well.  Amy looks well, too.  The new doctor must be something of a wonder.”

“He is considered very clever.  Aunt Amy is certainly better.  Now that you are home you must let him see what he can do for you.”

Mrs. Coombe’s pouting lips lengthened into a hard line.

“I won’t see a doctor.  And that’s flat.”

“Are you feeling better, then?”

As was always the case, her mother’s perversity dissipated Esther’s sympathy and left her tone cold.  It was all the colder probably because just at that moment she had noticed that the simple white frock Mrs. Coombe was wearing was not simple at all.  The delicate embroidery on it was all hand work.  And French embroidery is no inexpensive trifle.  It was probably a new “best” gown; but if so, why had it been worn on the train, why was it soiled in places and carelessly put on?  The skirt was not even, the collar, having lost a support, sagged at one side and just below the girdle belt there was a small, jagged rent.  Esther noticed these details with vexation and discomfort, for it was part of the change in Mary Coombe that from being one of the most carefully gowned women in town she had become one of the most slovenly.  All her natty, pretty, American “style” which the plainer Canadians had sometimes envied was gone.  But this—­this was worse than usual!  The girl’s quick eyes travelled downward, noting the increased signs of deterioration with something like distress.

“Why, mother,” she exclaimed involuntarily, “there is a hole in your stocking!”

“Is there?” Mary Coombe thrust out a small and elegant foot clad in thinnest silk and shod with pretty slippers not very clean and turning over at the heel.

“Dear me!” she said.  “So there is.  I need new slippers too.  I quite forgot to get any.”

“Oh, mother!” Jane’s cry was instant.  “You got heaps.  Tan ones and brown ones and white ones and black ones with silver buckles—­”

“Jane!” interrupted Esther, laughing.  “Give your imagination a rest.”

“But you did, didn’t you, mother?”

“Did I?  Why, yes—­I did buy a few shoes.  I had forgotten.  The Customs man didn’t find them either.  Run and fetch me a clean white pair, Jane, and bring down the surprise we got for Esther—­see how disapproving she looks.  I declare, Esther, it would be just like you to make things disagreeable the moment I get home.  I didn’t charge a cent, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I knew you wouldn’t do that,” gravely.  “And of course I’m glad you got the things.  But I can’t see how you managed.”